With equal gentleness he strokes a bow
across a violin or – on Sunday,
a day for ritual – sets foot
inside the musty, hallowed sitting-room,
draws in his fragile breath and
pulls with sympathetic strength
at organ stops, summoning a fugue by Bach
to rattle doors, disturb the cats,
shake off a week of post-war toil.

His diaries record the thud of bombs,
the price of fish, a flower seller killed,
a rose in bloom, a broadcast by the King
and other miscellaneous things… a baby’s birth